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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24002623">The Working Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngieW/pseuds/AngieW'>AngieW</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lazy Mornings And Quiet Nights [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Can be read on its own, Established Relationship, Even if George scares them all, Fluff, Friendship, George and Ringo are good friends, Help John, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Paul is just a little down he is not used to feelings, Quarantine, Ringo is baby, Romance, also sappy ending be warned, and students struggle, here we go again this time Paul is not doing ok folks, the boys are still together in the flat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:09:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24002623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngieW/pseuds/AngieW</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been four weeks since the beginning of the quarantine. Each young adult, trapped in the same flat, has been feeling down at least one time, or more, like John (but don't tell him). Except for Paul. For four weeks, Paul has been the cheerleader of the household. He drowned himself in his school work, but he was ok. Until today. Paul is finally down. And John doesn't know why. Nor does he know how to help.<br/>John, on the verge of panic, has to discover what happened to his love.<br/>Fortunately he can count on the help of his two roommates, and his loving heart (but still, he is panicking, help him.) </p><p>Another day in quarantine where John worries, Paul is sulking in his room, and George and Ringo are spending it helping these two once again.<br/>Can be read without having read the previous fic of the serie</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison &amp; John Lennon &amp; Paul McCartney &amp; Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lazy Mornings And Quiet Nights [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711087</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Working Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>And here we go again for a new fic! I'd like to thank everyone who had left a comment on the previous one of this serie, it meant a lot to me 💙<br/>This fic has some references to the last story, but not much. Just remember Ringo works in a ventilators factory, while the other three are struggling to keep on studying. The relationship are all established. And that's it.<br/>It will focus on Paul this time, and a problem some students might relate to, or anyone else. But we will be switching the point of view in each part. I hope those changes will be clear enough. Oh! And Ringo is here this time !<br/>I hope this fic will be able to cheer you up during those rough times, even if you're not fully quarantined anymore I know life is definitely not as before right now. But keep faith, it'll be alright !<br/>I'm sorry about any basic english mistakes, as always, for I am still not from an english speaking country.<br/>And of course, if you can leave a comment or kudos, I would be extremely grateful 💙❤ I like to know if it did cheer you up hehe<br/>No more words, enjoy !</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Paul was down.</p><p> </p><p>And dreadfully so.</p><p> </p><p>He knew it was worrying all of the occupants of the flat; he had noted George’s face when this morning he took a coffee instead of his usual tea, which he only drank when he was devoid of energy to manage through the day; he had discerned it in Ringo’s tone, when he had struck a casual conversation in the afternoon with him, choosing his jokes and questions with prudence; he had discerned it in John’s touch, before going to dinner, when John had stroked his hair with a careful smile as Paul laid on the bed once again. He had watched their concerns with a faraway look.</p><p> </p><p>He did not care.</p><p> </p><p>He would worry tomorrow, when his mind would shut away his stresses, his rationality would rule, and his heart would be cleansed of all the negativity his being could possess. The occupations he would find for his mind would be great way to distract himself from what he had learnt. His focus had to be derived, to somewhere else, to urgent problems, to useful thoughts, to nothing distressing.</p><p> </p><p>There had been so much news barging through the only connection he had with the outside panicking world: an assault of mails and texts of classmates, relaying the information, echoing it to the deepest part of Paul’s mind, and plunging it into a realm of uncertainty. Paul had been helpless to prevent any of it. He had been crushed and pushed to fall into water, where he was sloshing, waves after waves, in his empty spirit. The news had stung him. What he had struggled to avoid through all this quarantine finally happened: he was down. Paul was a practical, studious man, who had his focus and his goals. Nothing could stop his organization, his work. He controlled his every gesture, his every moment and movement. He had set a challenge to the world that he could control his entire life, no matter what difficulties would lie ahead. Often he had been proven wrong; his mother’s death represented the grievous price of this game. Yet, this event had only reinforced his resolve, to try to control everything as best as he could.</p><p> </p><p>This quarantine was another challenge sent by life itself, to make him collapse, to deprive him of his certainties, to render him powerless in front of the unknown. Because that’s what Paul feared: the unknown, the meaningless of life, the time slipping away, the uncontrollable things that happened; the ability to work for what was required, or what had to be done, was his strength. The quarantine desired to deprive him of that. It wished for people to be down, to be shaken off of what they comprehended, what they expected; to remain in uncertainty. Up until now, it had not gotten Paul. He had never once, felt down. John had, and many times, for a flood of reasons -Paul was there to eliminate them all; George had been sad and worried on moments when Ringo had to leave to work in the ventilators factory -thank god he solely worked every other week; Ringo once had been badly upset and shaken, when he came back from work one day and heard one of his co-worker was in hospital. They had all been, at least once, struck and grasped by the tentacles of quarantine; not Paul. He had been here, with so many things to do, things that weren’t out of his control, occupations that had not fled, priorities to fulfill: his school work, his music, his boyfriend’s happiness, the good mood of this flat, were all goals that Paul still had. He had been the rock of everyone. Never once he cried, shouted, or hid away. Through all this quarantine, he knew what to do. He seemed untouched. He didn’t face the unknown; he had his goals to make him stronger -or so he thought- than this ugly truth.</p><p> </p><p>But that had been the problem, for today he had fallen. The quarantine had finally struck him. He was down. The working man of the flat had been all day.</p><p> </p><p>What more could he tell you? Nothing that would cause you to understand the emptiness he felt. On the contrary, any explanations would serve as an example, as a proof that what had made him fall, was nothing. To the rest of the world, to his friends, to anybody, to his own self, his problem was nothing. Therefore, in all Paul’s logic, it meant his feelings were equally, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Consequently when John came that night in their bedroom, to peer at Paul, with his barely concealed worry, Paul had nothing to tell him. His problem was nothing, therefore, he had nothing to say.</p><p> </p><p>Paul liked to think in logical reasonings. They never betrayed him.</p><p> </p><p>Paul was lying on the bed, watching the ceiling; it hadn’t changed since he had started to, and it was pleasant to look at a regularity for some time. His ears, however, caught the sound of the door closing and of retreating steps to the shower, as rain erupted in the bathroom. So John had decided to shower before joining him, he mustn't have been too inviting then; he couldn’t recall if he showered this morning. The point of his thoughts was lost, as they drowned in the shower sound, reverbrating through the walls at such a dark hour; the moonlight seeping through the curtains only reinforced this darkness, making the ceiling invisible to his eyes -but what was the point of looking at something visible?</p><p> </p><p>The door of the bedroom opened again; Paul barely heard the shower stopping. By reflex, he shut his eyes, his ears his sole guide through John’s actions. He heard the door clack, followed by gentle steps; unbalanced sounds so typical of John, combining harshness and softness. The curtains were pulled, but light didn’t disappear from the room, for the small click of John’s bedside lamp indicated John had been quick to turn the lamp on; quick to eliminate the darkness. Covers shuffled next to him. A new breathing joined his in the silence of the room, as they both waited, immobile. He knew John was looking at his face, with his narrowed unseeing eyes, his clenched jaw and tight lips, but the covers rolled around himself like a protective cocoon of warmth, protecting him from the outside; harshness and softness again. He also knew that, however, his lack of answer would make his face furrow in worry, his jaw unclench, and his nose sniff. The pressing question was: how long would John resist before his patience flew away? To this Paul had no certain answers; it depended solely on whether John was furious at him for his disregard to John’s worry, or concerned for his silence.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he felt a shift of a foot in the bed, and a naked leg press to his. With its insistence, it tried to coax Paul to John. The contact wasn’t unwelcome; it meant facing John, however. He pivoted to his side, the cover falling a bit from his shoulders with the movement and opened his eyes. John was exactly like he had thought: furrowed brows in concern, no glasses, unclenched jaw, yet tight lips, fists gripping the cover, which was wrapped securely around his shoulders,up to his neck. A concerned lover who was waiting for sign that tomorrow will be bright, shining like usually for his lover would be alright. Paul couldn’t promise that. He only stared in return in John’s eyes. Under his gaze, John moved a bit closer; two legs were pressed against his now. His lover shifted again, before murmuring: “Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” Paul murmured back.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing else. That was all it took for their conversations to be over without it had even started. It was sufficient to silence the room, where eyes looked at each other but mouths did not speak. Paul took his time in observing his lover’s features: he didn’t look exhausted, but was not bouncing with pent up energy; he wasn’t nervous yet his fingers mechanically gripped and ungripped the covers; his features were open, yet his lips were sealed. Such contradictions represented John, but were also reassuring signs of a peaceful talk -or not an angry one at best. The problem that remained was the silence that wouldn't go away and would stay in place for hours on end. Paul knew he would have to fix this problem; John would be patient for too short a period, and if Paul didn’t seem to open up, he would puff in anger, turn around, and pretend to sleep; that was Paul’s opinion, but who knew if he was right? Paul worked on the following logic: “Do it yourself, because no one will do it for you”; this meant to him that if he wasn’t the one to shatter the silence and show John that it was alright between them, to calm his insecurity, make him understand his mood had nothing to do with him, no one would do it -not John.</p><p> </p><p>That didn’t signify he would breach the subject of why he was down. He had multiple reasons for that, verified or not: John would mock him; John wouldn’t understand, John would worry, John would feel insecure, John. Not at one instant did he think that not talking about it would make it worse for John.</p><p> </p><p>What he did instead, was jumping at a fleeting thought, a distant impression that passed his mind,  to grasp and wring. This impression suddenly arrived when John bit his lower lip, and he shied away from his eyes, his hands moving to Paul’s and holding them, taking a posture he had witnessed a year ago, in John’s flat in a cold winter night; this image was so different to their matter, to Paul’s matter, that he welcomed it with open arms. As a result, when he did speak, his voice felt lighter than his spirit, his lips curling up, his hands squeezing the warm hands:</p><p> </p><p>“Remember this moment, when we held our hands just like this? It was a year ago you know; when you said: “will you be my romantic friends with benefits forever?” do you remember?” John’s eyes flashed with recollection. He nodded with a bit of embarrassment. Paul let out a chuckle as he recalled the rest. “And I answered: “sure, and I can be your boyfriend eventually.””</p><p> </p><p>John snorted as in his mind the same image of a tentative yet cocky Paul appeared to them both. His features had softened, he even dared to slip closer to Paul’s frame, and Paul could feel their legs entwining together. Paul was confident his weary smile was enough to convince John to give up on any probing questions. Which is why he wasn’t careful enough when he slipped a meaningless to him, but not to John, small: “Times were easier then.”</p><p> </p><p>It was too late to take this back, for John’s entire being jumped on this sentence like a detective finding a clue to his investigation; he was suddenly vibrating with energy and worry. He squeezed Paul’s hands to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right they were,” he conceded him graciously, but Paul knew what was coming. “But, up until today, it seemed it was still easy for you. Even if you knew it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have admitted it. Now you just did.”</p><p> </p><p>At that last remark, it was Paul’s turn to avert his eyes from John’s; prying fingers decided otherwise and took his chin to return them to John’s. Paul’s hands that John still held were subjected to the contact of soft thin lips. Nervousness was making its way to Paul’s being, prepared to rush and engulf him. He could duck his head to try to avoid it, try to avoid John’s ultimate question. But John’s lips were still on his hand. He was trapped, in a soft loving hold.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me Pud,” John’s voice was a mere whisper in the room.“What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>That was at this exact moment that Paul bolted, in the sense that this sudden attentive and affectionate gaze lingering on his face, the two warms hands cradling his heart, and the unforeseen thought that maybe John could understand, had disarmed him: he panicked. In an instant, he was away from John; his back to him, his body far on the edge of the bed, curled up, his mouth blurted out a: "nothing important, good night John”, that he himself was ashamed about. He knew he had acted like an arse; he couldn’t explain why and didn’t want to fathom why; he wished this conversation over already. He closed himself off.</p><p> </p><p>John, surprisingly, didn’t react in anger. He didn’t lash out, it seemed, as he heard nothing from the other side of the bed. This further heightened Paul’s anxiety. It was only when he heard the crinkling of the covers did he sigh in relief; John had given up.</p><p> </p><p>He clang on to that hope, but he stayed ready for any words that would come from the other side of the bed. They did arrive, in a hurt firm tone, and Paul could imagine John’s dirty look.</p><p> </p><p>"You’ll have to tell me, Paul. If you’re still down tomorrow, you’ll have to face me. There’ll be no running away this time.”</p><p> </p><p>The threat was palpable. Paul swallowed a gulp of anxiety. It was only his feelings; he always dominated them, didn’t he? They wouldn’t slip away from his rough grasp for another day. No surely he couldn’t let that happen; but would he even have a choice in the matter? The idea that such a foolish thing was affecting him so much, to the point he even questioned his ability to maintain his control on his own self, and be John’s rock through these hard times, was shaking him with stress. Till now, he had never failed nor himself, nor John. What if tomorrow, he did?</p><p> </p><p>He shook himself out of it as he realized the spiralling pattern he was on. He shut his eyes close; he was thinking nonsense, his rationality had gone missing. A night of sleep would make him see. It was certainly the solution to his problem. If he had a peaceful sleep, he was assured that the next day, he would be back to his old self; busy during the day with homework -even if he didn’t know what homework now- helping George out, reassuring and cheering up John, laughing with Ringo, and be the constant of this house during those hard times. The working man would smile. All of this, with one good night of sleep.</p><p> </p><p>In spite of appearance, Paul knew he was foolish in this feeble attempt to reassure himself. But it was too many thoughts for a night. With a strength he discovered in his resistance, he uttered these ultimate words to his lover on the other side of the bed:</p><p> </p><p>“I will be alright.”</p><p> </p><p>He let himself drift off, and never heard John answering. The promise hung in the air; no one had faith in it.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“George, I don’t know what to do again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Again?”</p><p> </p><p>George answered John as he both served them a glass of water, with such a nonchalant tone that John was already regretting seeking the Hindu hippie for advice. But did John have any other choice? Probably not. You had to understand him, when he had a problem concerning Paul, he was limited in his choices, especially in this quarantine: calling Stuart was useless as he simply wouldn’t answer the phone; Ringo, sweet lad, was exhausted from last week at the factory, napping away, and John didn’t want to bother him; Paul was undoubtedly not considered as a choice -even though communication wouldn’t be such a bad solution; only the insufferable yet lovable guitarist slash cook of the house slash Hindu maniac slash yoga lover also named George was available to listen to the deep troubles of his poor mistreated heart. That’s why John was found once again in George’s lonely and sarcastic company.</p><p>Needless to say he exaggerated his suffering; he loved the lad -when they weren’t addressing each other snappy remarks and sarcastic comebacks, and George wasn’t looking so fucking smug about it. Like he was doing now.</p><p>But as John was sitting in a chair at the table of the kitchen, before their dinner, and George was giving the finishing touches to his mystery preparation -he refused to tell John what it was- he didn’t feel it in himself to be angry. Irritated, yes, he had to experience a minimum of exasperation at George even in rough times; not angry. It was true that he often vented to George during this confinement, for the most minor problem to the largest one with Paul. However this time, what could he do? The problem was one he hadn’t encountered in the past, had never witnessed before, had never had to deal with. Not before they had to stay imprisoned in George and Ringo’s flat, and not for the last four weeks stuck here did he face such worrisome issue: Paul was down. Not only was he down; he was cheerless, low-spirited, not cracking a smile, stuck to bed, not laughing, not kissing him or supporting him with all his mighty love. There was something wrong. If he had seen briefs moments of a sad Paul in the past year, since the beginning of their serious relationship -they remained in a grey zone of passionate sex but shy feelings for a year prior- John knew that a sad Paul was also a fleeting Paul; it meant that Paul would always make sure this emotion was banned in front of other people’s eyes.  For four weeks, he had been the cheerleader of this household; he was currently the slumped figure who seemed lost in a much too big house, for two days.</p><p>Yesterday night with their brief talk didn't change anything. John was worried -which was downplaying the evident fact he was on the verge of panic. He wanted -no needed- to comprehend what happened to his love. This morning, he had tried foolishly to wake up before Paul, and for once be the one to prepare them breakfast in bed. He had hoped that this act would make Paul melt with affection and he’d suddenly burst out the truth of his joyless mood to his oh so attentive lover: it had failed the moment he fell off the bed. Paul had woken up, told him he wasn’t hungry, refused to answer John’s asks and even his pleading didn’t manage to break Paul’s excuse of “It’s nothing important John.”. The rest of the day, Paul barely moved from the guest bedroom; he slept, or he fidgeted with items he found laying around, earphones plugged in to drown everything else but his thoughts. John had to witness it all through a blur of conflicting emotions, from irritation to concern and despair. All his resistance had faded during the day, and now he was back to crying about Paul to George; an excellent way to entertain and amuse him that John knew. At least Paul was still sleeping with his earphones on, and John was assured his pathetic whines wouldn't be overheard.</p><p>George finished to stir whatever he was preparing, while John still gripped his glass anxiously. His favorite cook smelling of dozens of spices dried his hands as he remarked to John, with a slight smirk that he ungraciously didn’t hide.</p><p> </p><p>"You know, I feel like one of these confidants in the plays you read, like Wilde’s I think. The poor miserable lover having to confide his worry to his valet and the valet has to save his arse and find the best advice. How tragic.”</p><p> </p><p>John’s anxious face sobered up at George’s snide comment, and his eyes landed heavily on the still smirking cook, who was still not looking at him. What an uneducated and unresponsive arse-</p><p> </p><p>“Ok so first it’s not in Oscar Wilde’s plays but in french plays mostly, second how do you even know french plays, and third I don’t need your advice George I’m not that desperate.”</p><p> </p><p>George frowned and halted his movements; mouth shut, paused in a misunderstanding of some sort. He finally looked at him, but he appeared confused, and John didn’t know what was so complicated to understand in his answer. So he just looked as confused in return.</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you studying English Literature normally?” this was definitely not the comeback he had expected, and John was taken aback for a second till his sharp tongue came back.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m in advance compared to everyone else,” George’s quirked up a brown, not impressed. “And I also read what I fucking want.”</p><p> </p><p>George chuckled. He put the cloth on the counter and leaned on the table, his elbows propping him up, and he stared intently at John’s face. The almost sinister grin he wore made John recoil in his chair and cross his arms as a barrier between George and him.</p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re that desperate for me advice.”</p><p> </p><p>“George for the last time I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>George leaned closer. “I’m not convinced, admit it you need me.”</p><p> </p><p>“George god damn it I-”</p><p> </p><p>“And here you are quarreling again! You two are impossible.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They both jerked their heads to the origin of the rough croaky, but warm voice, and they saw Ringo returning from his bedroom and marching to them. The lad was chuckling at their antics. John felt himself visibly relax, his shoulders slouching; Ringo represented no threat, especially when he had hair flying in every direction, and he was rubbing the sleep out of his blue eyes. The smile he had put them at ease; it was earnest, affectionate. As a bonus, when he joined them, George’s malicious grin that had tortured John vanished and he straightened, farther from John. John always enjoyed Ringo’s company; before this whole crisis, when Ringo still had his job as a waiter, he also worked in a pub three nights a week, that John frequented often; he had chatted with him, and they became good friend. The bearded man was always listening with a warm smile and some paternal reassurance. He had the maturity John lacked, and the easy-going attitude he had about every troubles and every bad feelings was refreshing to John: a nice way out of his worries. Seeing him there, taking a can from the fridge, with his usual slow rhythm, brought a smile to his lips; till it disappeared in the face of George and Ringo’s little domestic exchange. One of Ringo’s arm circled George’s waist, he murmured a soft “hey”, and George pulled him closer as he pressed his lips on his in a chaste kiss, smiling tenderly as he returned his “hey.” The scene was brief, typical of disgustingly in love people who couldn’t get their hands of each other or melted at the ordinary sight of their partner. To anyone it was just sweet, normal display of affection; to John it was a cruel reminder of what he had been deprived of for two days and a way to rub it in his face; it made his whole mood shrink. He slumped in his chair, pouting as he observed his sole friend in this pain; his half-empty glass -at least it was something he could press his lips to.</p><p> </p><p>After this sickening and misery-inducing display of healthy and supportive love was over -a minute of witnessing it was excessively long for John- Ringo sat in front of him, with George leaning once again on the table, a secure hand on Ringo’s arm -oh no not another PDA please. Ringo took a gulp of his soda, before he spread his hands on the table and sent John another one of his kind smile.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what’s troubling you son?”</p><p> </p><p>As he was going to answer, George beat him to it.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s mad cause his boyfriend is sulking. He doesn’t know what to do since he is the one doing that usually.”</p><p> </p><p>“George-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh it's about Paul!” Ringo cut John’s threat short, and John puffed at being interrupted twice. It was his problem, and he wasn’t even allowed to open his mouth for longer than ten seconds! Ringo continued with a pensive tone, not caring about John fuming. “I’ve noticed, the lad didn’t even laugh at me jokes yesterday at dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>John tried speaking again, but George decided otherwise, as his body turned to face Ringo fully. And he interrupted John, a third time.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it was odd. Did you see he also didn't follow his usual morning routine yesterday and today?"</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no, really? Paul would never miss his usual morning routine! Did you at least have your usual daily series and tea this afternoon?”</p><p> </p><p>“No! And neither yesterday! I waited at 4 pm for nothing! Something is obviously wrong here.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right George it’s-”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s my fucking boyfriend yes!” The two jumped when John finally lashed out at the couple. They both jerked their heads to a fuming John. He gritted his teeth; they had been drawn so close to each other while they enjoyed their little exchange excluding John, it had been infuriating to watch. “I’m sorry to bother you both, but I’d like to be able to open my mouth for at least a minute before you snog each other.”</p><p> </p><p>The two lovers suddenly realized they were so close they were almost bumping their noses. Their face flushed and they quickly retracted, trying to gain a minimum of composure. It would have been humorous to watch, because John loved to embarrass anyone that dared to approach him, but he wasn’t in the mood for that: the nervousness he felt about Paul was still growing, and he was confident he would be soon panicking and crying if he received no support. So these two would better start paying attention to him now -he was the one suffering here! They didn’t express a bit of compassion! Such traitorous friends!</p><p> </p><p>Ringo cleared his throat, in a vain attempt to get his focus back on John, as he should have done since the beginning -even if he did, but John was too sullen to remember that. He made a steeple of his fingers on the table and looked at John straight in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know why he is like that John? What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>John deflated. All his fake bravado disappeared in a mere second, and he was found hugging himself on the chair, shifting his feet under his legs. Chewing on his lower lip, he didn’t look back as he replied, defeated:</p><p> </p><p>“No I don’t. And he won’t tell me. That’s why I’m worried,” Ringo nodded for him to continue. “You see, if Paul doesn’t want to tell you why he is feeling down, he simply doesn’t show it. Compared to me, he masters his bloody feelings,” he ignored George’s snort. “So the fact that he doesn’t want to tell me why he is sad, yet still doesn’t hide, is concerning me.” With a smaller voice and a tremor, he finished: “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p> </p><p>As he was concluded, he looked up at both Ringo and George’s face. While Ringo wore an understanding smile, George was scratching his hair, his gaze unfocused -he probably didn’t even listen to him, the jerk.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re quite aware of people’s logic John.” Ringo offered lamely. John gave back a bitter laugh with no energy in it. “Only Paul’s, and barely.”</p><p> </p><p>Ringo propped his chin on his hand, elbow on the table. He was deep in thought. They had reached a pause in their discussion, a point where they were confined in the unknown, no solutions to their rescue. Or so John believed, before George snapped out of his daze, and as he straightened and went back to his pans, dropped out a simple and bored: “Well Ringo and I will find out.”</p><p> </p><p>Ringo pivoted on his chair, and he seemed to have found this idea perfect, for he jumped on it: “Yeah, we can ask him after dinner. He won’t say no to a cuppa with us two, he would never dare to be rude.”</p><p> </p><p>George hummed in approval. John looked at them both perplexed. How did Ringo comprehend George's idea with a single sentence he didn't want to know -it was too weird. However, they seemed to find this easy; judging by John’s experiences, it wasn’t. George moved on, however.</p><p> </p><p>“And John will pretend to sleep early, so he can listen to everything. Problem solved.”</p><p> </p><p>“But George, why would he tell you, and not me?” John couldn’t help but ask. As much as he also loved trying the first solution available, and act as fast as possible, he was dubious of George’s confidence; Paul didn’t tell him, and he was his lover. Shouldn’t he confide in his lover?</p><p> </p><p>George once again turned and leaned back. He was looking so sure of himself, and at the same time, treating this solution with such a blasé face, that John covinced himself next time he had a problem he wouldn’t vent to George; it was too irritating.</p><p> </p><p>“He will tell us, because he probably has a reason not to tell you,” George shrugged.“My best guess is that he thinks you won’t understand, or you’ll mock him. But I can be wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>Ringo added with an encouraging smile to John. “It’s worth a try.”</p><p> </p><p>John pondered on this. Well, he pretended to ponder on this; how could he refuse a solution where there were no risks for him to sabotage this, the possibility to spy on Paul, and even get his answer in the end? It was a gift; someone did take pity on him; it might indeed work if the voices in his head weren’t shouting doubts at him. He rose from his seat, seized his glass and raised it in the air, in such a dramatic gesture he looked like royalty. He grinned smugly, as if he hadn’t been miserable a mere minute ago and declared:</p><p> </p><p>“Gentlemen, we have a deal!”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Paul was sitting at the kitchen table, in front of George in his yoga pants and a shirt saying "cook of the house", with a cup yet to be filled in his hands and a warm dark sweater to reassure him. Ringo was washing the dishes from their dinner, humming comfortably, clothed in one of George's short sleeved shirt and red pyjama trousers. The kettle was heating up in the background. The couple had proposed for him to stay and drink a cuppa before bed, and John had left for their room, claiming a sudden tiredness. Paul didn’t question it, and not wanting to be rude to the people housing him, he accepted. He didn’t mind George and Ringo’s presence; George was a sensitive listener, honest and blunt, but always giving him space, while Ringo was warm and inviting, with a smile that made you feel at ease and was never judging. The duo was completing each other well, and their exchanges were heartwarming to see, for any hopeless romantic like Paul. Therefore, after such another empty day, it was pleasant to be with these two, and away from John's judging yet panicked face. Although he could see, concealed carefully but not perfectly behind George’s tight smile, an ounce of concern: it was opposed to John’s, as it expressed care, and support, while John’s expressed fear and frustration, panic. This was Paul’s interpretation of John’s features, perhaps was he making that up, to offer himself another reason not to tell him of his worries; he couldn’t know, he never enjoyed to analyze what people called “their own feelings”.</p><p> </p><p>Ringo rinsed his hands, dried them, sat next to George, and looked eagerly in Paul’s direction, without any other intention than smiling at him. His kind expression was soothing any reservations Paul had about this. He summoned a smile of his own, and conversed in a low voice.</p><p> </p><p>“How has it been lately? Did you find the time to rest?”</p><p> </p><p>The once waiter nodded. “The last days had been hard at the factory, I admit. But I took enough naps these last two days to be back in shape!”</p><p> </p><p>They discussed softly some more, Paul enjoying the ordinary distractions from his fruitless days that Ringo provided with his easy words. They talked of the factory, of Ringo’s various co-workers, the dog who had chased Ringo away from his grocery trip the day before -even if he knew Ringo probably fled the moment the dog barked at him, scared- and more political subjects around the crisis; it was a casual conversation, one in which they were engrossed in, without Paul noticing, for he felt so much at ease with his mind and the drowsing voice of Ringo that he didn’t care about the time. At one point George had silently served the tea, but it hadn’t stopped their conversation. George then stayed there, saying no words, observing attentively Paul’s face, listening. But Paul gave it not much thoughts; George was just being himself, and soon he’ll be either blurting his opinion or just the right joke. His eyes never left him; they scrutinised his every moves, his every sips, any flickering of his lids, any twitch of his lips; this gaze was impassive. As not to shiver in nervousness, he only focused on the kindness emitting from Ringo.</p><p> </p><p>When the tea was sipped and the conversation ceased, a silence settled in the room, comfortable enough for neither Paul nor Ringo to fill it more. Paul felt calm, calmer than he had been these last two days. He laid back in his chair and sighed. Maybe having nothing to do now wasn't so bad, maybe he could get used to peaceful moments like this one; he merely needed to get his control on himself back and maybe -who was he kidding, he could still feel a miserable pit in the bottom of his stomach waiting to engulf him whole again.</p><p> </p><p>At that point George stood up, took their cups away and his back to Paul, he opened his mouth for the first time since Ringo and he had discussed.</p><p> </p><p>“Paul, drop the happy mask and tell us why you’re depressed now.”</p><p> </p><p>Paul's breath caught in his throat. But George washed the cups, not bothered -heck he might have been whistling with how detached he seemed! Ringo, however, did react.</p><p> </p><p>"George, can't you be more tactful?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry Ritch but you've been tactful till now and you never dared to ask him what was wrong. So I'm doing it."</p><p> </p><p>Ringo grumbled. Paul was now more focused, more alert to George than he had been before, for the moment George had talked, a fleeting pain had crossed his face, giving him away. George sat down again, as if nothing had happened. Paul reflexively puffed out his chest, crossing his arms on the table; George mimicked him; Ringo moped in the middle of their staring contest. Paul didn’t want to break; saying his worry out loud would make it so much more humiliating; it would make this nothing visible to George, Ringo, and especially himself. But Paul knew how to pretend; he knew how to fake his feelings, and he mastered it; he just hoped this talent wouldn’t flee if he got cornered and his trouble swallowed him whole.</p><p> </p><p>“George, it’s nothing important. You don’t need to worry about this.”</p><p> </p><p>The man he considered as his little brother scoffed at him. “Oh really? You just didn’t want to get out of your room for the last two days?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, maybe yeah. Is it a problem for you?”</p><p> </p><p>“And you also stopped all of your usual routine just because?”</p><p> </p><p>Paul jiggled his foot under the table. No, he wasn’t getting nervous. Not at all. If George could stop piercing his soul with his eyes under his bushy eyebrows, then maybe it would be easier that was true.     </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you guys are constantly complaining I’m such an old git doing the same thing everyday. You should be happy you know.”</p><p> </p><p>George’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment. He wasn’t supported when Ringo whispered to him that Paul had made a point. However, Paul regretted his chuckle when George glared at him, his humor gone from his face. Paul tensed; George always seemed to have the ability to read his soul, deciphering it, and laying it bare for all the world to see. George squared his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“So, if you are perfectly fine, why are you worrying John? Wouldn’t you try to make sure to your lover everything was ok? Or you enjoy worrying him for nothing.” Paul broke eye contact with George at the mention of John. He knew he had lost at this precise gesture; George smirked. But it was Ringo who continued. With a much gentler voice, a much gentler approach, he spoke to him: “Paul, we know something happened to throw you off like that. We all noticed something was wrong. You don’t have to hide it, you can tell us.”</p><p> </p><p>Paul knew they had him. He was defenceless when it came to John; the stark reminder that he was the cause of John’s restless attitude these last two days submerged him with guilt, and Paul was always defeated by guilt. John was an emotional man: if he saw Paul in distress, he’d be distressed; if Paul was furious, he’d be furious; he was so in tune with all of Paul’s feelings, sometimes it amazed him to be so emotionally transparent and connected to such a prideful yet reserved person: he didn’t how he obtained this privilege. It also meant however that if he was troubled for too long, it could affect his lover badly. Paul didn’t want that.</p><p> </p><p>He slumped in his chair, no longer puffing his chest, or clenching his fists. He was abandoned to picking at his cuffs, gazing down.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s about the university.” He couldn’t see Ringo and George’s face, but he knew they were likely waiting for him to elaborate. With many hand gestures, he did. “I received news for my exams yesterday, and- it’s childish to be so upset about it, really.” He made a pause. He looked up briefly to see Ringo nodding in encouragement and George frowning. After much stalling, he finally told them. “My school projects of this year are all cancelled. My exams are postponed to an unknown date. And I won’t get any more news about it for a month.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite his flushing face, he dared to look at the couple across the table. They bore concerned faces; there wasn’t a shred of malice in their eyes, nor a feeble smirk or sneer. It made no sense. They should be snickering -if not Ringo, at least George- at such a pitiful problem. So many worst issues in the world, so many other worries, so many people were going through real suffering during this quarantine, and yet, he was affected about deleted projects and delayed exams. He shouldn’t. Why couldn’t he overcome those empty feelings? Why did he allow them to overpower him?</p><p> </p><p>“And how do you feel about it?” George said, as he flinched at the sudden intrusion in his thoughts. The unexpected question destabilized him. He gestured angrily, not controlling his words for a split second.</p><p> </p><p>“I feel like shit!” Ringo’s widening eyes made him recoil. Lowering his voice, checking his words -but it was so hard to express such worries. “It’s just- I don’t know what to do anymore,” he looked up at the ceiling.“It’s like I got stripped away of my balance you know. Suddenly, I’m quarantined with nothing planned nor in control. Just, emptiness. I can only wait, not knowing what will happen. With nothing to distract my mind.”</p><p> </p><p>His audience jumped when he heard himself croak out a soft: “I’m lost”, that came from the bottom of his repressed heart and exposed his sadness to the couple; he was even denied of his pretended impassivity now.</p><p> </p><p>There was another moment of nothing. No one spoke. Paul was still transfixed by the ceiling. The kitchen had gotten quite dark, except for the ghastly light stinging his eyes, but compelling him to feel alive. He didn’t know what time it was. Faint noises echoed from behind him, but they were so quiet that he paid them no mind; only when he heard a creaking sound did he furrow his brows. However, it was at this moment, when his eyes detached themselves from the ceiling, that Ringo asked an harmless question for anyone else but him, especially now.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you tell it to John?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh please,” Paul scoffed. His jaw tightened at the stupid suggestion that John could have possibly understood; he ignored the gentle voice who fed him hope of understanding if only he gave him a chance, and grimaced. “John always mocked me for being the“ideal student”. If he knew I was down only because of that, he would ridicule me. I already feel ridiculous enough without his help.”</p><p> </p><p>That was when he noticed George was glaring. For a second, Paul thought he was glaring at him, and his brows went up in surprise; he didn’t think this answer would make him the subject of George’s silent judgement. But, with a second look, he realized George wasn’t glaring at him, but at something behind him. Paul did a quick visualisation of the flat in his head; what could George possibly be staring at in the dark, behind him? Only the guest room and the bathroom were behind -the guest room was his and John’s room! Paul whirled around; there was no one; the door was slightly ajar, as if someone had tried closing it, but gave up. John wasn’t there. But Paul couldn’t help but remain suspicious, as he turned back; it wouldn’t be surprising if his lover had tried to overhear what was being said. Besides, he would know soon if John had been listening or not, he even had the intuition he’d know as soon as he’d step in their room. George was still glaring behind him, however. Paul wondered if John had appeared for a second, or if the cook was being mad at John and, since he wasn't here, was trying to stab him through the door.</p><p> </p><p>The answer to his suspicions surprisingly -or on second-thought it wasn’t actually- came from Ringo, who said with an unnecessary loud voice that resonated in the flat.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I sure hope he’ll try to understand if you ever tell him!” George was glaring at Ringo after that. Ringo didn't seem to get the message George wanted to convey to him and shrugged. “What, it’s just an advice, that’s all! Don’t look at me as if I had ruined John's cover!” George’s forehead crashed into his palm at his partner’s slip-up, and Ringo snapped his mouth shut at his reaction. Paul smirked: Ringo could never be discreet. He whispered a desperate “sorry”; his face was one of a small boy who had realized his mistake and was prepared to be scolded; it was too adorable not to laugh at, and Paul let himself enjoy the humour of the situation. He was joined by George, shaking his head in disbelief and fondness, his clear chuckles warm. Ringo flashed a sheepish grin. It brightened the mood from the cheerless conversation.</p><p> </p><p>Paul should have felt saddened, hurt by the fact that John knew; John had heard it at all, had heard this worry, that was nothing in the grand scheme of things; yet he was calm. What could he do anyway? Be furious at George and Ringo because they were concerned and wished only to soothe his boyfriend’s fears? Be mad at John because he spied on him? He was doing this all the time it wasn’t a genuine surprise if he was honest with himself. At least now the truth was revealed, and John's worries were certainly fading away. On a pitiful note, he had the chance now to feel empty without having to conceal it. Or perhaps, John’s future mockeries to him would snap him out of these trivial problems.</p><p> </p><p>When their laughters subsided, the atmosphere, while not strange, was a bit awkward, and Paul felt like he had overstayed his welcome. So he got up from his chair and sent an embarrassed smile to the couple.</p><p> </p><p>"Guess I'm going to see him then."</p><p> </p><p>"Paul one moment," George halted him in his tracks. He blinked at the grave face George wore: the reassuring smile Ringo showed him didn’t convince him to let his guard down. George stood with Ringo. He said, as a final: "It's not nothing. Don't always minimize your feelings."</p><p> </p><p>Paul felt his shoulders relax. He sent a smile of his own.</p><p> </p><p>"Thanks. I'll think of it."</p><p> </p><p>As he waved them goodnight, and Ringo flashed him one of his famous peace sign, Paul made his way to their bedroom. He stopped in front of the door: it was closed now. He chuckled at this vain attempt of John to hide his actions; he was probably under the covers, pretending to sleep. Soft steps behind him retreated away from the kitchen to their own room. Paul was alone. He had a vague idea as to what to expect when he would enter; he only hoped John would try to understand; perhaps he would ridicule him about school the next day.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t his fault if he was worried about work again, was it?</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The door creaked open, and John wasn’t prepared.</p><p> </p><p>He had jumped on the bed the moment he had heard Paul saying he’d come to him, had hidden under the covers, and waited, eyes boring into his bedside lamp. He should have known it was a terrible idea to keep the door open and stand right behind it while they were taking in the kitchen; but how could he have resisted? He wanted nothing but a closer look, to listen more attentively to his lover’s troubles, to see his body language, as he couldn’t observe his face. His goal wasn’t to lean on the door a bit too heavily and make this loud creaking sound earlier! If only he hadn’t, George wouldn’t have glared at him, silently telling him to flee, which had made Paul turn around; it had been a close call that one, John had hidden his head away, but he hadn’t had the time to close the door. And if Ringo hadn’t tried distracting Paul away from John’s neglectful misstep, he wouldn’t have accidentally revealed their plan. Why couldn’t he either be less curious when it came to his lover? What was he going to do? John had no idea as to what to expect: his lover had been so different these last two days, he was almost as unpredictable as John himself -but not completely, no one could be as unpredictable as John, he prided himself in being the best in that field. Not only that, but what was he expected to do himself? Ringo expected him to be understanding, George ordered him to be guilty, but Paul, he assumed he would mock him; John didn’t want to do that; it was the reason Paul hadn’t wished to tell him. The worst was this reason was well founded. John would often tease Paul when he’d work for hours on end, doing even more than what was asked; he knew these banters weren’t what hurt Paul; it was the reproaches, masked by malicious jokes and taunting remarks, enough to belittle his boyfriend, when he would be stressing for exams, too much, too hard: simply because Paul cared about school and John didn’t. He didn’t do it on purpose; it was his way of reminding Paul there were other things than school work in life, that it was no use getting so worked up about such matters, that so much worse could happen to him than have one bad mark. As he thought that, he realized Paul was right: John couldn't understand Paul’s need to success in his work, to make sure all his exams were perfected, finished, well-planned. But that was when he realized something else: Paul couldn’t understand John’s need to be happy first; the rest wasn’t a priority. John’s eyes widened, Paul’s steps approaching a distant noise in the background. Paul couldn’t understand why John was more upset about reaching the end of his favorite book or having failed one of his drawing -Paul would dare to reply that it wasn’t failed at all it was lovely, as if he had the same artistic views as him!- than a bad mark on an essay. Paul couldn’t grasp why John was never in a hurry to finish a school work, and would even finish at the last minute; Paul meanwhile had everything prepared in advance for days! Paul was a working man; he was happy when he had achieved all of his projects, when he filled a planning; he enjoyed his free time only when he had everything important done -how many times did John tried to distract Paul from work for a snogging session and he got ignored? Suddenly John saw Paul’s worry in a new light; he understood why Paul would feel empty hearing such news about his exams and projects: he had nothing to do.</p><p> </p><p>John wasn’t aware of the bed slightly dipping next to him, he was too enthralled in his sudden knowledge to notice. Because John had understood. Somehow, he knew how he could help his lover. Paul had to follow him; he had to accept his logic. He had to understand he could enjoy this occasion to do things that made him happy. And John felt like this was something he could manage. John smiled, his eyes twinkling. For the first time since the day before, he wasn’t helpless.</p><p> </p><p>“John, can you stop pretending to be asleep I know what you were doing.”</p><p> </p><p>John jolted from his curled up position. Paul’s voice came from behind him. He didn’t want to turn around, because even if he comprehended Paul now, it didn’t mean he was equipped to confront his lover; would he find the exact words, the subtle sentence, and the correct tone to support him? Paul was sensitive to all these aspects, there was no way a slip-up would be unnoticed. Therefore, John tried faking it; he tried to make himself sound as if he had emerged from sleep, with a measured and croaky voice: “Sorry… why did you say love?”he even stifled a yawn by the end of this sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“John stop, you’d never sleep with your glasses on.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Oh. That wasn’t inaccurate… Why was he always so unconvincing? He wasn’t that bad at mind games, and pretending; with Paul as his opponent, he was terrible. Punching his pillow in frustration, he sat up, his white shirt -well to be exact, Paul’s shirt that he had stolen when he entered the room to comfort himself- crinkling with the movement. Glancing at the form next to him, he realized Paul had his back to him; the overstressed student was barely looking at him and yet he had knew John had his glasses on; John was sure no normal human being would notice such tiny meaningless details when they are supposed to be upset. And they said he was the odd one in the couple. Paul’s hands were under his pillow, his legs close to his chest. It was mimicking John’s usual sleeping position, except that John’s face would be snuggled to Paul’s side as, usually, Paul slept on his back with one arm circling his shoulders and the other raised up -like the good student he was even in his sleep. It was bizarre to see. Anyone would think Paul was just closing himself off, but the pose was so alike John that it seemed he remained open to him. Yet he had not turned to him, which explained the stillness of the room. John only wished to break the tension; which he did.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, alright, you win, I was lying Sir,” he raised his hands in defeat.“Don’t punish me too hard Sir please, I’ll never do it again!”</p><p> </p><p>His faked pleading met deaf ears. Paul didn’t move. John’s arms fell limp on the duvet. It was going to be harder than he thought -and he had thought it would be extremely difficult already!</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Paul always made things easier for him, in a sense that he'd question John, and not let him be speechless for too long. “What do you think John?”</p><p> </p><p>John looked at Paul's form; he blinked a bit dumbfounded.</p><p> </p><p>“About what?”</p><p> </p><p>“About what you heard,” Paul shifted and sat up. He was cross-legged, but hunched over, as if he was defeated; it was contrasting with the serious and cautious gleam in his eyes, that made John shiver involuntarily. “About the reason I was worried, you know. You don’t understand it, right?" his lover sighed. John was about to answer, but Paul was faster -how come everyone interrupted him today? "Don’t tease me about it though, I’m not in the mood for that tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>"I haven't said anything yet!" then John slapped his mouth shut. Bloody hell, why his first defensive reaction was to raise his voice? Paul was glaring at him, dangerously: "Don't start John."</p><p> </p><p>His raw voice was a threatening sign. In a rapid motion John tried to appease his lover by moving his hands up and down. "Babe I'm sorry I didn't mean to, please don't be mad." his hands ended up on one of Paul's forearm; the glare Paul bore softened, but only slightly; he was still staring at him with suspicion; he let his hands where they were. John tried to have a gentle face, a gentle tone.</p><p> </p><p>"You're right I don't understand,"</p><p> </p><p>And that was called a suicidal sentence. The forearm jerked away, Paul tore his eyes away. Great, his lover was pouting. They were seriously the worst; John had no other words. He had to resolve this quickly.</p><p> </p><p>"But you don't understand my point of view either."</p><p> </p><p>That captured Paul's attention, for he stared at him again. A deep breath, he couldn't fail at this.</p><p> </p><p>“Paul, I know how important work is for you, how exams always came first. I don’t understand that. And you know how this was never a priority for me. I always preferred to do things that made me happy, before anything else. You don’t understand that. We have the same problem."</p><p> </p><p>A small break followed from his point. So many words to express such deep feelings, to convey such a major reassuring message; John didn’t know if he could do it. He did master words; the language had no secret for him; he entwined and untwined syllables, rhymes, words, sentences, and thread them around his fingers; they mixed with his wit and mind, and they became his defensive and offensive weapon; not a soft soothing embrace. No, to soothe, he couldn’t allow himself to let his mouth spew his biting cutting comments and harsh truths, or hypocritical lies, which went beyond his control daily. That’s why he had needed this slight break, to observe once again his lover’s face. But Paul hadn’t moved; a twitch of a brow was the unique thing that slipped through his control. He wouldn’t allow John the luxury of seeing more.</p><p> </p><p>With a tentative hand, he approached Paul’s leg; it was fidgeting, Paul’s own fingers were picking at the cuffs of his black sweater; he was nervous, but he wouldn’t let it be shown on his face. Gentler than ever before now, his fingers grazing Paul’s trousers.</p><p> </p><p>“I understand, however, how the news of your exams as left you with no control and no schedule. And you don’t know what to do. Because that’s the problem, isn't it? You have nothing to do, nothing to control. There’s nothing to plan, because nothing is certain anymore.”then John repeated himself, staring straight at Paul’s worried eyes.“You don’t know what to do. ”</p><p> </p><p>Paul’s eyes widened; they fled John’s; his composure had been broken. Determined not to let him go behind his walls again, he shifted closer and his palms rested on Paul’s leg fully. He lowered his head to force their eyes to meet; Paul’s were fogged.</p><p> </p><p>“And it’s good sometimes not to know what to do.”</p><p> </p><p>“No it’s not. It’s horrible,” Paul’s voice croaked out. John’s lips curved in a faint smile; his lover was slowly opening up to him. John’s fingers nudged his chin lightly, the other hand resting on his leg.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, where did my optimistic boy go, huh? Who would always look at the bright side,” Paul’s lips twitched, and he dared to look at John again. The joke had eased his tensed shoulders. John kept going. “I know it’s hard right now, but soon, you’ll see something good can come out of this. Those paintings that you never had the time for? These songs you left unfinished? These discussions you had to cut short? These hours of sleep you missed?”he took his chin between his fingers, and lifted it. A tender look crossed John’s eyes, a surge of love smashed him, when he saw the lost expression adorning his face. “The kisses we didn’t get to do, the long conversations in the dark we had to stop, the intimate moments we had to delay; all of these things are possible now. Everything outside is on hold; not us; and not our passions. Not our love.”</p><p> </p><p>That was all. He had nothing more to add. The power was in Paul’s hands. Every speech that ended was left in the unknown; as the words had floated freely to their goal, it didn’t mean his auditor had heard the message correctly -or the one the orator desired them to hear; on the contrary, his auditor could have focused on John’s slight trembling voice on some words, or his brief and involuntary pauses, or the weakness of his grip on Paul’s chin. John was worried that he failed, because that was what he constantly believed, and because he was convinced he always did; he knew all the little slip-ups in his behavior betrayed him; he could persuade himself there were enough to make Paul not consider his speech.</p><p> </p><p>However the moment he heard a faint sigh from a defeated face, his plaguing doubts from the voices of his mind, screaming at him he hadn’t done enough, were halted. It took a lot of control that he didn’t know he possessed not to gawk at him. Then, a hand sliding to his wrist, that cradled his lover’s chin. A light squeeze of wrinkled fingers from so much guitar playing. Oh God, he succeeded, Paul had cared for his words, had heard, paid him attention, consider what he said and -oh for anyone not as dramatic, they would think it wasn’t special; to John, always convinced he failed, while simultaneously esteeming he was fabulous, this was sufficient to make his jaw drop.</p><p> </p><p>But the pained expression painted on his lover’s face was a signal he had not yet soothed the worries of his heart away.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” Paul’s other hand joined the one holding John's wrist. “I-I understand what you mean. And you are right. You’re right, I… I should be more optimistic about it.”There was a “but” hanging in the air, it was palpable. Paul’s eyes shut. “But I can’t yet. It’s nothing to get so upset about, and you showed me the good of it, but I’m-”</p><p> </p><p>“Babe, look at me,” he cradled his chin with both of his hands now. Their eyes met again. John was determined not to let them go. “I’m not saying you can’t be sad. You can be upset, it’s not nothing. What I’m saying,” he paused for a brief instant, trying to find the appropriate words in his jumbled brain. When he discovered them, he leaned closer, not letting Paul escape. “What I’m saying is that you will be alright, if you give it a chance. If you give me a chance to help.”</p><p> </p><p>“But John-”</p><p> </p><p>“Paul, you can. You just need time to adapt. Like I did in the beginning of this quarantine.”</p><p> </p><p>By a miracle, he had gotten this sentence out, with no slip-up, no pause, no quiver in his voice; only a firm tone and final words. It astounded them. Paul was staring at him, frozen; John was doing the same, in expectation. The hands that were holding his wrist moved. For a second he worried they went away; they never did. Unsure, faltering, they finally rested on his arms. The chewing of a lip. John, an encouraging nod, but not seen by dodging eyes. A long time of hesitation, that actually lasted some mere minutes. Then, a resolve carved in hesitant eyes, and they stopped avoiding his. Some remaining tension cut by a resolute voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I’ll try.”</p><p> </p><p>That was all it took. Three words, to make it better.</p><p> </p><p>Paul sank in John’s chest. John scurried to enclose him in a secure hold, and he hid his own face in his neck. He could feel Paul’s face worming its way to his neck in return. They both let out long breaths, mixing with each other, in a relief that had been desired for two days yet only obtained in this embrace. A sense of security engulfed him. He tightened his hold, legs hugging Paul’s form. Calmness, at last. For John felt like this physical contact cleansed them of any polluting thoughts and remaining doubts; causing them to reconnect in the best way they knew, in the most needed form of affection. Fondness clouded his features and directed his actions, as he ran his hand through Paul’s dark tousled hair; it was entangling between his fingers, capturing them. A sudden urge to be even closer if it was possible. He lowered his lips to Paul’s neck, and trailed light kisses, moving higher and higher to his ear. He was tuned to each breathes Paul took, ready to stop if one was too sharp, and to the rubbing motion on his back; Paul had been stroking his back in circles since he had fallen in his arms, and it comforted John. It was alright. However, the desperate face-paced rubs had slowed down as his tender kisses went on, to a pleasant rhythm. When John had gotten to his ear, he stopped, to press his nose in Paul’s hair, nuzzling it, scenting Paul's coconut shampoo once again. However, the rubs on his back became lazier; they weren’t strong anymore, but light, like feather caresses on his shirt. It had the effects of slowing John’s mind down, making it relax, fully. Then the caresses stopped.</p><p> </p><p>John waited for Paul to pull away; he didn’t. Curious, he was the one to move a bit, enough to peak at Paul’s face; his eyes were closed. He shook him gently, thinking his lover had fallen asleep. It made Paul’s eyes snap open. Not only that, but his hands hurried to his shoulders in a tight grip, and he blurted out to John, who was completely unguarded: “I love you so much, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>John’s mouth dropped open again. He blinked. A second time. A thought crossed his brain: even during a love confession his lover couldn’t help himself; he had to slip a “you know” in it. John snorted at that fact. He didn’t regret it, for when the sound escaped him, Paul beamed at him, with a genuine smile, blinding him with joy and tenderness. He playfully tossed his hair, making Paul’s nose crinkle in giggles. He missed that these last days.</p><p> </p><p>"What's so funny?" his lover asked with twinkling eyes. John snorted again, and, mimicking Paul, he replied: "You know." That earned him a playful punch, and he laughed brightly. He didn't want the greedy spectators of his life to know, but he murmured a low "I love you" in Paul's ear afterwards.</p><p> </p><p>After another tender moment, they got up to undress, then moved back together to the bed. Paul laid on his back, as he always preferred, and John curled up against him, one leg and one arm circling his love. He wasn't going to let him go. They had been exhausted and knew they wouldn't stay up much longer. Before they drifted of together, John had looked up; his lover was peaceful. All the worries that had been carved on his features had vanished. It provided John the proof that Paul would be alright. John wouldn't have to go through the rest of this quarantine alone, because his lover needed him, as much as John needed him, even when he wasn't fine. Paul hadn't shut him away. They were both adapting, together. It was the only thing John wanted.</p><p> </p><p>Still, he sought a final proof to erase his insecurity. He softly called Paul's name in the room, attracting his gaze. He didn't know if this question was ideal now, but it needed to be asked.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you going to do tomorrow then?"</p><p> </p><p>Paul seemed to hesitate. He didn't reply right away. But it was fine, because John could witness his lover's resolve thickening at the daring question. Paul's hand took hold of his, and they both rested on his stomach. His lover smiled. It was the most stunning sight to fall asleep to. He felt a quick press of lips on his, making him shudder.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll be doing nothing, with you."</p><p> </p><p>___________</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE END</b>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you very much for reading this story💙<br/>Stay safe as always, be loved and be strong. I give you all my energy to keep going through those hard times!<br/>And don't stress too much about school or work, focus on your health and your happiness first during this quarantine 💙<br/>Leave a comment/kudos if you can, I'll thank you a lot and it will make my day! If cant (or didnt like the fic), I hope to see you next time!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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